Leviticus 16:22
by Tashilover
Summary: The problem with being a martyr is, you have to die.


**Warning**: Forced kisses, dub-con situations, fake suicide attempt.

()

They brought him flowers. They brought him expensive wines, though he didn't know why, it was not as if he could drink it. They brought him silk, first edition books, diamond rings taken straight from their own fingers. They brought him incense, cigars, various bits of jewelry like gold pins, silver necklaces, and platinum bracelets. They brought him expensive rugs, goose-filled pillows, Egyptian cotton sheets, and some moron brought him a grandfather clock.

They piled it up against the wall right outside his cell. Most of them dropped off the gifts, bowed and scurried away blushing, like they just encountered a meeting with their favourite celebrity. Others sometimes kneeled right in front of his door, praying.

When they did this, Kieren liked to look through small open window of his door and tell them, "You're an idiot and I don't like you!"

The ones who came every day were used to it and often ignored him. Those who experienced it first hand sputter, their jaws dropping in surprise. "Why would you say that?"

"They're going to kill me! And you're just kneeling there like it means nothing?"

At least they had the good sense to look a little bit guilty about it. "God had to sacrifice his Son-"

"I am not the Messiah!" He would scream, pounding his fists against the door. "I am not the answer and I am not going to go willingly!"

He has never convinced any of them to help him. They simply finished their stupid prayers, thanked him for his sacrifice, and left.

He tried to escape once. He managed to convince a guard to come close to give him his blessing, and just as the guard opened the door to receive it, Kieren kicked out, slamming the door against the him, knocking him backwards.

Kieren ran for it, and was caught almost immediately by other passing guards. With him kicking and screaming, they dragged him back to his cell. Now no one was allowed to open the door.

He didn't need to use the toilet or eat. He didn't need to bask under the sun for vitamin D or worry about cold or heat. So much for using the excuse, "I need to pee" to help him.

His cell was... nice. To say the least. He had a queen size bed, clean, floral pattern sheets, and fresh new pillows. They gave him a television set, a DVD player, a Gameboy, books and films. When he asked them for art supplies, they gave him that too. Pens and pencils and sketchbooks. Oil, acrylic and water based paints. Charcoal twigs, rubbers, sharpeners, canvasses, rulers, bristol boards, duct tape, markers, pen tips, colouring pencils, pastels and a drawing board.

Kieren was surprised by how much they gave him. He never had this much before in his life. Some of the canvasses they gave him nearly ran for thirty pounds at the local art store.

"Thank you," he said as they gave him the supplies. He hated saying it to his captors, but he _was_ thankful. His fingers twitched when he saw the pastels. He has never used them before and he wanted to try it out.

They didn't give him an ipod or ipad; they didn't want him to have access to the internet. The tv shows aired during the day were just as bland and boring before he died, so he spent most of his time drawing. His walls were soon filled with his sketches. There were pictures of his parents, of Jem, of Rick and Simon and Amy. There were pictures of Danny, his little dog the family owned when he was ten. There was also a single picture of Joanna, a girl he knew back at school who died from a blood clot at the age of twelve. She didn't Rise as far as he knew.

When he was drawing, he could drown out the stupid prayers from outside. He could forget they were all counting down to December where they would sacrifice him for 'the greater good.'

Once a day he was visited by the Undead Prophet.

"Good Afternoon, First Risen."

"Piss off," Kieren said, focusing on his work. His hands were black from the charcoal dust.

"You're very talented," the Prophet continued as if Kieren said nothing. "Perhaps I shall ask your admirers to bring you art supplies instead."

Kieren continued to draw. It was getting harder to focus, having another presence in the room. His family knew not to watch him draw because it made him self-conscious. Having this guy sitting right behind him, _admiring him_, made his skin crawl. "Can you please leave? You're distracting me."

"I am happy to know you acknowledge me, First Risen."

"My name is Kieren. Either use it or shut up."

The Prophet suddenly got close, bending over Kieren like a hawk over a mouse.

"Jesus Christ!" Kieren yelled out, moving away.

"Why do you insist in drawing this traitor?" The Prophet asked, look at Kieren's half-sketch of Simon. "He is nothing more than a plague upon this house."

"Oh my _god_. This is not a house, this is an abandoned building you morons took for yourselves. Stop talking like you walked out of a Bible. I am not buying it!"

The Prophet straightened. There was an underlying sense of rage behind that stoic face and for a moment, Kieren thought the Prophet would attack him.

Out from beneath his black, flowing robes, the Prophet pulled out Kieren's daily dose of Neurotriptyline. "Turn around, First Risen."

Glaring, Kieren did so. He felt the Prophet pull down his shirt- his silk blue shirt given to him as a gift- and administer the medication. He resisted the natural reaction to shudder. He didn't want to give the Prophet an extra excuse to touch him.

The Prophet stepped back, putting away the needle back in his robes. Just as he was about to leave, he stared at the sketch of Simon for a long second, then reached out and tore it down from Kieren's drawing stand.

"Oi!"

"Best not to distract yourself with this traitor's face," the Prophet said, crumpling up the sketch. "He'll only give you bad dreams."

()

That next day, the admirers brought Kieren art supplies. Those who were not artists brought him basic supplies like crayons, school pencils, computer paper and rubbers. Sometimes he got different paint brushes or art book references.

Just to spite the Prophet, Kieren drew Simon over and over, tacking his various pictures on the wall. In one picture he drew Simon giving the middle finger and tacked it on the opposite wall of the door. It would be the first thing the Prophet saw when he came in that afternoon.

It was petty, school-yard revenge, but it was better than nothing.

As planned, the door opened that next day and Kieren heard him enter, only to stop abruptly.

A slow, satisfied smile spread across Kieren's face.

After a second, the Prophet moved, and greeted him. "Good afternoon, First Risen."

"Fuck off, you pretentious twat."

"Still drawing that traitor, I see. Well, I suppose I should thank him. He is the one, after all, who brought you to me."

On that, Kieren ran his charcoal piece so hard against the paper, it snapped underneath his fingers. He breathed through his nose slowly to calm down. "He did not hand me over to you."

"No, he didn't. But he did tell me who you are. He called me that night when he discovered you. _I've found the First Risen_, he said. _You should see him_."

Kieren stiffened as the Prophet laid a hand on his shoulder.

"_He's beautiful_."

Kieren snapped. He stood up suddenly, twisted around and faced the Prophet, eyes blazing. "Why the hell are you even doing this? Why do you come here every day? At the end of the year you're just going to sacrifice me like an animal, so why bother?"

The Prophet raised his hand as if to stroke Kieren's cheek. Kieren flinched away, disgusted. The Prophet sighed. "To die again," he said. "Is not easy. I am simply trying to prepare you for your ultimate sacrifice."

"I am not sacrificing myself, you are going to _murder me_ in cold blood. Stop acting delusional."

Kieren was so tired of all this verbal sparring. Every day this self-proclaimed ass-hat came here, telling Kieren he had a great destiny and that it was an honour to die for them all. If the Prophet wanted a martyr, he should've volunteered himself.

The Prophet turned to the door. "Bring her in."

"Bring who in? What are you talking about?"

The door opened. A woman, strapped to a wheelchair, was pushed in.

"What is this?" Kieren demanded, on the edge of panic. "What are you doing?"

The woman was _alive_. She looked like she was in her mid-twenties with brown hair, brown eyes, thin and petite. There were leather straps over her wrists and legs, keeping her still, as a leather mask covered her mouth. She was crying, her mascara creating a black river on her cheeks.

She looked like Jem.

The guards left her there, right in the middle of the cell.

"Enjoy," the Prophet said, following them out. He closed the cell door behind him, locking it.

"Enjoy?" Kieren cried out after them. Did they mean for him to _rape_ her? "What the fuck are you-"

Realization struck him like a sledgehammer to the head. He didn't get his Neurotriptyline shot today.

"Oh no. No, nonononononononononono..."

The woman flinched violently as Kieren came near, shaking her head as distressed noises erupted out of her mouth. "Please, please calm down," Kieren said. His hands went to her straps around her wrists. "I need to get you free. I need..."

His hands were trembling. He bit down on his lip as he tried to focus to undo the straps, but they were too tight, too complicated for him to do this under a few seconds. He could feel the change coming, the white fog slowly creeping in his mind, ready to take over.

"Fuck!" He cried out, flinging himself backwards. There was no way he could free her in time. He had to find another way, do something else to keep himself away from her.

He pushed her into a corner, and started shoving everything he had around her to create some kind of barrier between her and him. Maybe... maybe if he didn't see, didn't know she was there, she could hide until-

When he tried to move the bed, his body violently lurched and black bile spewed out of his mouth, splattering on the floor. The woman screamed from behind her mask.

He couldn't stop it. He couldn't stop it...

()

_Don't_

_Don't_

_Don't_

_Eat_

_Eat_

_FEED_

_Hunger- Hunger - Hunger- Hunger_

_She looks like Jem_

_Nononononononononononononononononononononononono_

_EAT EAT EAT EAT EAT EAT EAT_

_Not a monster-_

_Please-_

_Help me-_

_FEED_

_Bitter_

_Thick_

_Sweet_

_Warm_

_Salty_

_Blood_

_Blood_

_Blood_

_Blood_

_"Please, please don't. Don't hurt me... please..."_

_Please-please-please-please-_

_Thirst_

_She looks like Jem-_

_Eat-eat-eat-eat_

_Let go_

_No_

_Don't hurt Jem-_

_Let go_

_Please_

_Don't make me_

_I'm sorry_

_Sorrysorrysorrysorrysorrysorrysorrysorrysorrysorry-_

_NO-_

()

When Kieren woke, he was being cradled in the arms of the Prophet.

He was so tired, his body refusing to move no matter what. His room could catch fire at that moment and he wouldn't have to power to even drag himself out. The Prophet was slowly dragging his fingers down Kieren's cheeks.

"You're incredible," the Prophet breathed in quiet admiration. "You're..."

He suddenly leaned down and kissed Kieren gently on the lips. Kieren was too wrought out, too confused to think, to fight back. He laid there, blinking away tears, his arms dead at his sides, unable to push away.

The kiss went on for what felt forever, till finally the Prophet leaned back, smiling down at him.

"Did I..." Kieren swallowed, his throat hoarse. "The woman... is she...?"

The Prophet grasped his chin and turned his head for him. The woman was still in the same place Kieren had pushed her in, dirty, but alive. She was covered in black bile, her pink skirt and shoes stained dark. She too was staring at Kieren with wide, amazed eyes.

"You fought your untreated state for three hours," the Prophet said. There was a hint of awe in his voice. "There were a few times you got close, and thought for sure you would have eaten her, but you kept your hunger at bay. I have never seen anyone do that before."

Relief crashed down upon Kieren. It was so great, he could've cried from it. Oh thank god. Thank god. He was so tired, so heavy, he wanted to go back asleep.

Just as his eyes closed, ready to go back into that blessed darkness, the door opened and the guards came back in.

The Prophet gave a quick jerk of his head. "Get rid of her."

"No..." Kieren whispered, horrified. He ignored his exhaustion, trying to get up. "No, leave her alone, you can't-"

He was cut off when the Prophet kissed him again. Kieren pushed against him, his hands shoving against the Prophet's shoulder. His strength was gone. He might as well be pushing against a brick wall.

"You should rest, First Risen," the Prophet said, pulling back. "I have much to prepare."

()

"When Simon first told me you were the First Risen, I had my doubts."

Kieren did his best to mute the Prophet's voice out and tried to focus on his book. The last Harry Potter novel came out when he was still in the ground and he was eager to finish it. He sat on his bed, leaning his back against the wall, with the book propped up on his knees. He would've preferred to have it in his lap, but the Prophet sat down at the end, forcing him to bend his legs.

"Many of my followers are so eager to help me," the Prophet said wistfully. "Sometimes they're overeager. They come to me with names, dozens of names, of possible First Risens. It only takes me a few minutes to denounce them. But when he told me about you... I knew."

"Literally thousands rose from their graves that night," Kieren said, turning a page. "In America, I heard over three million rose across the country. You're telling me you deduced over three million people in America were not the First Risen?"

"I used to be a computer salesman. I died because I stepped on a rusty nail. I lived a simple life, with simple goals, and I died a boring, simple death. I am nothing special, First Risen. But when I rose..." He sighed. "I found I was connected to every undead being on Earth. I could reach out to them, find them, talk to them without ever being in the same room with them."

Kieren blanched. "You're saying you're _psychic?"_

"Mmm... I wouldn't call myself psychic. I cannot tell you the future, I cannot guess the numbers in the lottery. I can only communicate with my fellow undead."

He turned his head to look at Kieren. "Except you."

"You're so full of bull."

"How do you think I got Simon to be on my side? Sweet, passionate Simon as one of my disciples."

"The same way Jim Jones got followers. Through fear and false information."

The Prophet narrowed his eyes at him. "Don't compare me to that man."

"Oh yeah? What are you going to do if I don't? _Kill me?_ Fuck off." He tried to go back to his reading.

"I was given a gift, First Risen. God gave me the ability to talk to the undead and yet you are the only one who is guarded against me."

"Horseshit."

There was a pause.

The Prophet suddenly lunged forward, and slapped the book out of Kieren's hands. He grabbed the boy by the shoulders, threw him off the bed, onto the ground. Kieren scrambled, trying to get away, but the Prophet was on him in a second, wrestling him down. The Prophet was taller, stronger, bigger than Kieren- bigger than _Rick_. Kieren had no chance.

"_How much more proof do you need, First Risen?_" The Prophet sneered hotly against Kieren's face. "_You are immune to my abilities. You are capable of fighting against Blue Oblivion and your rabid state. I could subject you to more tests, but I think I have proven my point over and over_."

Kieren struggled against him, unable to break hold. "Get off of me, get off of me you sick mother-!"

His chin was roughly grabbed by two hands, forcing his face towards the Prophet. Another rough searing kiss was pressed upon him, muffling his protests.

Kieren used to fantasize what it would have been like to kiss Rick. To touch him, to hear him sigh and gasp and have him kiss back. Kieren would spend hours thinking about this, clutching his pillow at night in blessed thoughts.

His first actual kiss was given to Simon. In some ways Kieren wished he could've taken it back. That was not a night to share a first kiss when he was troubled and upset and wanting to punch something. But Simon kissed him back, gently cupping his face, eventually moving his hands down to Kieren's neck to encourage him to kiss more. It was incredible.

It felt like the Prophet was trying to eat his face. His kiss was full of mashed lips and teeth, and Kieren was sure if he could still feel pain, he would be grunting in agony right now. "Ge'rroff!" He growled, moving his head out of the way. "You sick-! Bastard-!"

"You're incredible, First Risen," The Prophet breathed. "Just incredible."

()

When Kieren and Jem were younger, they were _obsessed_ with MacGuyver. They loved the concept of using every day household items and turning them into a super weapon. They often debated what they would do if they were stuck in a room, tied down, and what they would use to get themselves out.

Nothing they came up with would ever help Kieren in this situation, but as he slowly thought up of a plan, his memories of his childhood sprung on him.

One of his admirers had brought him a tin container of turpenoid. The guards didn't allow gifts like sharp scissors or an exacto knife in fear Kieren would try to use it against them. They didn't confiscate the turpenoid though. They should've.

It was odorless, colourless, and Kieren had only used a small portion of it to clean his brushes. With a cup of water nearby, Kieren soaked one brush in the turpenoid, then stood on a chair, up to the single, naked light bulb in his cell.

He briefly tapped it with a finger, testing the heat. He couldn't feel it and he grimaced, forgetting he about his lack of temperature receptors.

He pressed the soaked tip of the brush to the hot bulb.

It started smoking, then suddenly it caught on fire.

Kieren quickly pulled it away and dunked it into the glass of water, putting it out. He didn't want anybody to notice the smoke. Good. At least he knew that worked. It was time to get started on the next part of his plan.

He took all of his clothes, all the silk shirts, all the expensive trousers, and stuffed them in his bed. He arranged them so it looked like a human body laid underneath the blankets. He even put a pair of trainers at the end for an added effect. He then soaked the entire body shape with turpenoid.

This next bit was going to be dangerous. He was risking his own skin for this and he hoped it worked. He soaked another brush, stood up on the chair, pressed it against the light bulb again, and let it caught on fire.

This time, he didn't put it out.

As it burned, he pushed things out of his way for easier access to the door. He took a breath, steadying himself (reminded himself he didn't need to take breaths anymore) and then tossed the flaming brush onto his body double.

It took a few seconds for the flames to get going. He waited, hoping the flames wouldn't die out half-way. To his satisfaction, the fire got bigger, hotter, and just at the point where it became dangerous for him to do more than watch, he bellowed out, "FIRE!"

Immediately footsteps came rushing to his cell. They opened the little hatch, saw the flames, yelled out, "Bloody 'ell!" and threw open the door. "The First Risen has caught himself on fire!"

Kieren wasn't a hundred precent sure this would work, and as all three guards ran in an desperate panic to put out the flames, he was dumbstruck how none of them noticed him hiding in the corner, just slightly off to the side. They door wide open.

He took off.

Last time he tried to escape he went left. This time he went right, running as fast as his feet could carry him. He wasn't much of an athlete when he was alive and he was still having trouble coordinating his feet as an undead. As long as he didn't trip, he didn't care how he must've looked. He was getting the hell out of here and nobody was going to stop him.

From behind he heard echoing screams and yells. He wondered if they noticed he was gone or if they still believed he was the one burning.

He nearly sang hallelujah when he finally saw the exit emergency stairs. Not missing a beat, he slammed his body against the door, shoving it open, and took three steps at a time, nearly tripping over his own expensive boots as he did so. He kept running down, refusing to stop, even as he stumbled in his haste, forcing him to throw out an arm to keep from tumbling over.

He didn't know how he managed to get to the bottom floor without ever running into somebody. Thank his lucky stars their security was so lax. Thank goodness no one had the idea to keep lookouts on the _fire escape_. Morons.

He burst through the last exit door, gasping as soon as he hit fresh air. For a second he stunned. After nearly a month (or was it more? He didn't know) of being confined to a cell with no windows to the outside world, standing out in the open air was incredible. The sky was black, the moon was out, and the smell of rain was on its way.

-_as soon as his fingers broke through, the gonging noise of a church bell rang loudly. Kieren stepped out of the wet, thick mud, first and alone, his head turned up to the sky as if trying to catch the raindrops with his tongue_-

He gasped. He suddenly dropped to his knees, memories overwhelming him. He tired to keep focus, to blink away the images popping up into his mind. Up ahead he could see the open road, just a little ways off from where he was. He tried to move forward, he'll crawl like a dog if he had to. He managed to put his hands out, to drag himself across when more memories struck him like lightening, making him cry out in alarm.

-_first he didn't move. He didn't want to move. The church bells were still going. He cocked his head to hear them better, this odd echoing noise that was both familiar and foreign. He jerked when the noise suddenly ceased, leaving him alone in the darkness. Then, a second later, he heard groans erupting all around him. Finally, he wasn't alone now-_

"Fuck," Kieren groaned, pushing himself up on his elbows. "God... fuck..."

He didn't want to believe it. There was no fucking way was he going to believe it.

Cool, thin fingers brushed the side of his face, startling him.

Kieren jerked away, throwing himself to the side. The Prophet pulled away his arm, looking at him curiously. "I know you saw it," he said quietly. "I could feel it."

"It means nothing," Kieren said.

"No, First Risen. It means everything. Do you understand the burden you carry? You have the power to change the _world_."

"A fucking gamble. You have no proof if my death would bring on the Second Rising. And... and even if it did, there's no fucking way would I ever participate in that! Millions of people would die! All of civilization would crumple to the floor-"

"A new dawn of era would begin-"

"Stop talking like you're Julius-fucking-Ceasar! You're not a Prophet, you're not a shining light in the dark! You're a religious fanatic with too much time on his hands! Get a hobby!"

The Prophet stood up. He held out a hand. "Come with me, First Risen. Let's go back inside before you ruin your clothes."

It didn't matter. It didn't matter what Kieren said or did, the Prophet was going to believe what he wanted to believe. He had no problems in murdering innocent people to prove his point.

Kieren raised his head defiantly at the Prophet. "My name is Kieren Walker. I am the First Risen," he snarled. "But I am _not_ your martyr."

He raised his hand and slapped away the Prophet's arm. He reached into his back pocket, grabbed the shiv he made out of broken wood from his drawing board. He held it against his throat. "Today is October tenth. I have to die on December twelfth. You take a step forward, and I swear I will shove this entire stick up into my brain faster than you can a sing a church hymn."

The Prohpet took a defiant step forward. "I don't believe you."

Kieren dug the shiv deeper into his skin. "I killed myself once. Don't believe I won't do it again."

To emphasize this, with his free hand, he pulled down his sleeve to show the vertical scar on his wrist.

That got the message through. The Prophet's eyes narrowed. Kieren could see him debating for a long second, his legs twitching as if ready to run forward. Finally, after a good minute, he moved away. He gestured for Kieren to go.

Cautiously Kieren moved past him, still holding the shiv against his neck. When he placed enough distance between them, he pulled his arm away, turned and ran as fast as he could.

He expected for the Prophet to run after him but all he heard were the sounds of his own shoes beating against the dirt.

He only created the shiv to help him escape. To help break a door or disable someone if he was grabbed. Up to that point, he had no intention of killing himself. The thought never entered his mind.

But if it came down to it, if he was grabbed again and December twelfth was just around the corner, would he do it?

He pushed the thought from his mind. He needed to focus now on getting away. For all he knew the Prophet was gathering forces to come after him.

He didn't have a torch on him and no street lights were on, but he could see the road just fine. When he far away enough, he slowed to a quick pace. He was surprised by how quiet it was. He was always surrounded by white noise or the goddamn Prophet. No crickets were heard. No owls flapping over him. Kieren stopped completely, ceasing the noise of his trainers on the asphalt and stared up into the sky. Above him, the Milky Way shimmered like a million diamonds.

He was struck that this was the first time he's been alone since the Rising.


End file.
